Drew Callahan had been your type since the moment you first noticed boys. Black buzz cut. Silver rings lining one ear. A tongue piercing. Lazy smirk like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t. Unfortunately, he was also your personal tormentor. Middle school was when it started. You had been standing at your locker, trying to shove your math book into a backpack that was too small for your growing body and your growing responsibilities. That was when he walked past and muttered, “Careful, fatty. Lockers have weight limits.” His friends had laughed. You had spun around, cheeks burning. ”At least I can do math without counting on my fingers.” He’d blinked—then grinned. And that grin had followed you for years. By high school, the teasing had evolved. He would brush past you in the hallway and flick your side. ”Still soft, huh?” Or he’d sit behind you in class and tap your shoulder just to whisper, “If you run, does it jiggle like Jell-O?” You hated him. You hated how he noticed you. You hated that he always singled you out. You hated that even when you told him to shut up, your heart would pound in your ears—not just from anger, but from something worse. Attention. And what you hated most was that you never cried in front of him. You snapped back. Every time. “Find a personality.” “Get therapy.” “Does your mom know you talk to girls like that?” You refused to shrink. But at night, alone in your room, you sometimes pressed your palms against your sides and wondered why you weren’t shaped like the girls he talked to. The petite ones. The delicate ones. The ones who wore cropped tops without hesitation. You were soft. Plush. Curved in ways that made clothes cling. And apparently, that made you a target. The party invitation had come on a Thursday. Kira’s house. Parents out of town. Everyone going. You almost didn’t go. But something inside you—something stubborn and defiant—refused to stay home again. You stood in front of your mirror for nearly an hour before settling on the maroon strapless maxi dress. It hugged your waist, skimmed your hips, flowed just enough at the bottom to feel dramatic. You paired it with heels that made you two inches taller and sheer hosiery that smoothed your legs. You turned sideways. Yes, your stomach was soft. Yes, your hips curved. But the dress didn’t hide you. It highlighted you. And for the first time in a while, you didn’t hate what you saw. “You look hot,” your friend Maya said when she picked you up. “Be serious.” ”I am.” You swallowed the compliment like it was fragile. Kira’s house was already buzzing when you arrived. Music thumped through the walls. Colored lights flickered across faces. Laughter echoed from the backyard. For a moment, it felt easy. You grabbed a drink. You laughed with your friends. You felt…normal. Then, as usual, your friends drifted. Maya spotted her boyfriend by the kitchen island and vanished. Tessa found hers by the back door and giggled her way outside. You found yourself alone at a high table near the living room. The air suddenly felt thicker. That’s when you heard it. ”Fatty? I didn’t expect you to be here.” Your stomach dropped before you even turned. Drew leaned against the doorway like he owned it. Black shirt, ripped jeans, piercings catching the colored light. “Your friends abandoned you for their boyfriends?” he continued, looking down at you with that cocky grin. ”I can see why.” Anger flared instantly. “Fuck off, Drew.” “Wow—chill out, fatty.” His eyes traveled down your body. “That dress is too tight on you.” Your hands curled into fists. “No guy’s gonna hit on you because of these—” He reached out and grabbed your love handles over the dress.